


On the Breath of the Wind

by arkadianmouse



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, American Civil War, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-10-29 19:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10860951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arkadianmouse/pseuds/arkadianmouse
Summary: Billy's eyes tracked him as he passed. "You got your war."Goodnight stopped. His hand twitched at his side, seeking the heavy weight of a gun, or possibly the hand of another."And you'll fight?"Goodnight could not bring himself to answer."Then I'll wait."A twist on "Cold Mountain" and "The Magnificent Seven," this time with a happy ending for both.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be very, very loosely based off Cold Mountain, but I will admit that was the jumping off point. If you have not seen the film and you are in the mood for excellent character progression and a terrible ending, please indulge. It will of course not be necessary to understand or enjoy this fic!

_But oh my love, though our bodies may be parted_  
_Though our skin may not touch skin_  
_Look for me with the sun-bright sparrow_  
_I will come on the breath of the wind_

 _Yankee Bayonet (I Will Be Home Then) by The Decemberists_  

 

* * *

1855 ― _Rose Creek, North Carolina_

“How much longer until we get there?”

Goodnight bit back his laugh as his youngest brother, Jamie, asked the same question of Mr. and Mrs. Philippe Robicheaux that had plagued them this entire journey. He shared a look with Finn—Jamie, a precocious eleven year old, was no more suited to long travels in confined spaces than either of his older brothers. Still, they knew when to bite their tongues.

The trip from the banks of Louisiana to the mountains of North Carolina had been brutal, and Goodnight didn’t fault the question. He was eager to lay eyes on the place they would call home while his father attempted to acquire a business partner for his next venture, seeking prospects further West.

Quietly, in his innermost thoughts, Goodnight wondered why they even needed to leave their home—their life—in Louisiana. He was a man now, and could care for his mother, younger brothers, and the entire household. But that was a conversation he wasn’t ready to have with his father; all hard eyes and steely temper. They would go where they were told to.

“Thaddeus, I have goddamn told you—”

“Father,” Finn interrupted. “I think we’re approaching a homestead.”

Sure enough, John was slowing their coach as they turned on to a rougher road. Goodnight, with the prime window seat, turned his head to peer out at the scene unfolding. The homestead must have made a living off a number of goods, and in the heat of the late summer sun, a few men were harvesting oat grass. One of them caught sight of the coach and stood to watch it pass. Goodnight was shocked to see the man was utterly foreign-looking, in stark contrast to the other white farmhands.

Goodnight couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a man to befriend, if he was to survive the next few years here.

“My god,” his father said, joining him to glance out the window. “Why, I think that’s Abner Bell’s farm. I’m amazed to see he has a Chinaman working for him—I wonder how he got a coolie from out West.”

Goodnight watched in fascination as the man returned to work, strong arms gathering the oat into bushels and carrying them to a nearby cart. He looked no older than Goodnight himself.

Goodnight had always wondered at those who did the hard work he never had to, often when he visited his grandfather’s tobacco plantation. Even though his father had been bought out of any profit from that industry by his uncle, their family was still accompanied in their travels by John and Ben, who had done most of the heavy lifting for them on their journey North.

Goodnight also wondered at the unrest the Abolition movement had caused ever since he was young, and what these men and women of labor thought of it. He had never had the guts to ask.

A sudden rut in the road brought their coach to an abrupt halt, not fifty paces from the edge of the farm. His father swore as John rapped on the side to get his attention, and his mother raised a hand to her face in exasperation. Goody caught her eye and smiled.

“Goodnight, love,” she said. “I do believe John and Ben might need some help, given the way this mess has gone in the past. Would you run back to the fields and see if we might get some help?”

Goodnight’s mind raced frantically for an excuse, but he found none. Finn was already protesting that he alone could offer assistance, but Goody knew from experience that it was rough going with only four people trying to uproot the wheel. God knew his father wouldn’t offer to help, and Jamie was still too small to be an asset.

"We were so close!” He could hear Jamie cry as he jumped from his seat onto the tough dirt, heading for the farmstead. He loosened the buttons on his collar, in an attempt to look approachable. Even still, Goody was aware he stuck out like a swollen thumb next to these rough and sun-kissed workers. He felt a flush rise to his face as he noticed that one of them was already walking in his direction.

“Hello!” He called, aiming for charming. The man continued to silently approach, and Goody was surprised to find that it was the worker from the East, loose cotton shirt billowing in the soft breeze. Goodnight let out a nervous chuckle in the silence as they finally met.

“I suppose you noticed we ran into some trouble there,” he said. “I was hoping you might be kind enough to offer some assistance so we can get back on the road.”

The man nodded, and Goodnight let out a relieved sigh. “You are a savior! With the number of times I’ve done this on the road already, I was afraid my arms might give out. As you can see, I don’t have your build.”

The other man didn’t obviously size him up, for which Goodnight was grateful. Unless, of course, he had already done so, and found Goodnight wanting.

They began the quick-paced stroll back to the coach, and Goodnight attempted to start a line of conversation that might give the man a voice. He began with the obvious introduction:

“My name is Goodnight Robicheaux. My family is moving up here while my father begins negotiations with his new business partner; with any luck, we’ll be here for a few years—I have no designs to take a trip like that again. You see, we’ve come all the way from Louisiana.”

Goodnight watched the other man’s face carefully: he had some expressive eyebrows, but was still silent.

“Goodnight’s not my real name, of course. And yours is…?”

That earned him a sliver of a smile, a glance over. The man’s features really were striking. “Billy Rocks. Not my real name, either.”

Goodnight let out a startled laugh, and was about to reply, when Finn ran up to them.

“Hurry your ass up, Goody!” He cried, jostling Goodnight’s arm.

“Phineas,” Goodnight chuckled low. “Is that any way for one gentleman to speak in the presence of others?”           

The man—Billy—observed the exchange with interest. Goodnight sighed. “Come on, I suppose my father is getting impatient.”

The two took off in a leisurely jog after Goodnight’s younger brother.

“Goodnight!” His mother called happily when he returned, not ten minutes after leaving. Goodnight would never tire of her affection.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “The prodigal son has returned, with company.”

John and Ben, at least, looked amused—or at the very least, grateful for the help. Goodnight would be sad to see those amiable faces return to Louisiana without him, but they had families of their own to attend to.

As the five of them settled around the coach’s wheel, preparing to lift, Goodnight noticed Jamie watching raptly.

When the feat was accomplished, Goodnight turned to shake Billy’s hand, but Jamie beat him to it.

“Hi!” The boy said, excitement cracking his voice. Luckily, Billy looked amused. “I’m Jamie! What’s your name?”

Billy shared a look with Goodnight. “Billy Rocks.”

Jamie’s eyes widened. “Cool!” He looked hesitant, and Goodnight knew what was coming next. “Where are you from, Mr. Rocks?”

Billy did not even bat an eye. “I am from a place far away called Korea, though I traveled through China to get here.”

Goodnight felt that there was more to the story, and he hoped that some day he would get it. For now, he patted Jamie on the back. “Alright, _ma crotte_ , back to the coach.”

Jamie sprinted back in a burst of energy, and Goodnight tried to meet Billy’s eyes. “I apologize for him, but where we are from—”

Billy held up a hand. “It is alright. Your family is very polite. I do hope we will see more of each other.”

Goodnight was so caught up in reflecting on the musicality of Billy’s slight accent that he didn’t even notice the other man turn to return to the fields.      

“Goodnight!” His mother called, beckoning him to the coach. By the time Goodnight was seated and closing the door, Billy was already out of sight.

\- -

Mason was snickering as Billy fixed the wooden plank in place. “Boys’ve never done an honest day labor in their life. Wonder what that’s like, not to grow up under the belt if you make a slight mistake.”

Dewitt was chuckling gleefully. “Silver spoon, Mason. Fancy Leezy-anna silver.”

Billy bit his tongue as he listened to their trend in conversation; high above the town on the roof of the church, the air was crisp and it cleared his head. He hammered down hard to secure the plank; Mason and the other laborers may have been poor, but the color of their skin and their place of birth gave them a privilege Billy didn’t have. It gave them a freedom they didn’t have to pay for.

“Hey Rocks,” Mason called, passing him the next plank. “You saw one of the blue-bleeders, didn’t you? What’d you think?”

Billy remained silent as he affixed the next in place. The other men ribbed him good-naturedly, but he didn’t have a word to say. He was typically silent, and he wasn’t about to say a word against a man he’d willingly assisted, and whose conversation he’d enjoyed.

After all, Goodnight was another outsider, after so many years of Billy being the first and only. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity of friendship slip through his fingers. 

Dewitt whistled loudly, eager to get Mason’s attention. Mason peered over the side of the roof and scoffed.

“Speak of the Devil,” he said, a little too loudly. Billy glanced over and saw Goodnight approaching with one of his brothers—the older one. They were chatting cheerfully as they strolled up to the base of the church, but Billy could not hear their conversation over Dewitt’s angry hammering.

Below them, Mrs. Corbell was organizing the refreshments for the tired workers—because this was the town’s place of worship, the men were essentially doing volunteer labor, but they were paid with the kindness of the locals. Billy, of course, had been volunteered by Mr. Bell, but he appreciated the break when it came. Billy noticed that Goodnight and his brother were on a direct path for Mrs. Corbell’s set-up, and as Goodnight glanced up at the roof, Billy quickly turned his head back to his work. He wasn’t sure what it was that had made him so suddenly nervous.

“Mr. Rocks!” Mrs. Corbell called suddenly. Billy peered over the roof once more and found three sets of eyes looking back at him. “Mr. Rocks,” Mrs. Corbell continued. “These boys say they have a question for you!”

“Good luck, Rocks,” Mason said darkly, while Dewitt guffawed once.

Billy climbed down carefully, and by the time he reached the base of the church, Goodnight was waiting for him. Billy tilted his head in greeting.

“Mr. Robicheaux.”

Goodnight waved the pleasantry away. “Please, call me Goody. All my friends do.”

Billy simply nodded, and Goodnight shifted his stance. He held out a glass of Mrs. Corbell’s lemonade, and Billy took it with a cool smile. As the glass passed between them, Billy felt Goodnight’s warm fingers retreat at his touch.

“So… Mr. Rocks—”

“Billy,” Billy corrected, and Goody looked relieved.

“Billy,” he said warmly, and Billy felt his pulse quicken. He looked to the ground again while Goodnight continued. “I’m afraid your conversation wasn’t all I came here for. My family thought it would be a grand idea to move our pian-ah up here, and now we’ve unpacked most everything and it’s still stuck up in the cart. My father’s already sent back Ben and John and we are very much lacking some manpower. I was hoping you might be able to assist?”

It had been a while since Billy had been offered the choice of labor, without Mr. Bell’s prompting. He thought about saying no, especially with the church roof already taking so much of his time, but there was something earnest about the other man that made it hard to deny him.

Billy smiled but, before he could give his answer, Mason called down to them from above.

“Rocks! Stop lallygagging around down there and come join the real men!”

Billy looked to Goodnight sharply, but there was no aspect of hurt on the man’s face. “I apologize,” Billy began, but Goody’s good-natured smile calmed his unease.

“It’s no matter,” Goodnight said. “Besides, I know how to do one thing very well that may surprise your friend up in the heavens.”

Billy felt a surprised chuckle rise in his throat. “And what’s that?”

Goody tapped the side of his nose. “Secret. Maybe I could show you one day, though.”

Billy felt a harsh thrum of blood under his skin; he ignored it. “If you don’t work me to death first.”

Now Goodnight’s eyes flashed with panic; Billy rolled his. “I am kidding. I should have time to assist you tomorrow night. Would that work?”

Goodnight still looked hesitant, but upon Billy’s prompting he nodded his approval. “Tomorrow it is then. We are up at the old Pickett homestead—you know it?”

Billy downed the lemonade, the bittersweet sting hitting the back of his throat, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He passed the glass back to Goody, who was looking a little flush.

“Yeah, I know it,” Billy said with a smile, before he made his way back up to the heavens.

\- -

Goody spent Friday in a nervous fit, for reasons he did not dwell on. Finn had been upset when Goodnight had suggested they seek help elsewhere, but even his bravado was no match for the piano that Mr. Robicheaux had insisted they bring up—a memory of dear Sally, married off and moored in New Orleans. As much as Goodnight missed his sister, he found that he envied her more days than not.

Except—Rose Creek was shaping up to be rather interesting. Goody found himself drawn to the Eastern man of Mr. Bell’s—although really, Mr. Rocks did not seem to be cleaved to any one man. He was a fascinating character, and Goodnight was set on keeping the promise he had made to become his friend.

And after their conversation yesterday, in which Goodnight had felt such a strange rush of affection towards the other man, he found himself even more anxious for their meeting today.

And so, he did what he always did when he was feeling anxious—he took his gun in hand and went out shooting. He was in awe of the amount of _space_ the mountain had to offer, essentially creating his own private range. Even shooting at targets in the yard was more of an adventure now that he could place them even further from the house.

His fowling piece was a welcome weight in his hands, a heavy and vicious thing. Goodnight knew of others in the Louisiana aristocracy who had ornamental shotguns that were worthless in the field. This was not one of them.

Goodnight had found several unused sacks in the old farmhouse and packed them with tall grasses—they stood now like a row of soldiers facing the firing squad. Goodnight smirked at the unlucky faces Jamie had drawn on them with ash, and raised the gun.

“Now this… I was not expecting.”

If Goodnight had not grown up with brothers, he may have startled. As it was, he always had a steady hand when a gun was present. He looked up and felt his mouth grow dry at the sight presented.

Billy was strolling towards him, linen shirt mostly undone as if the long day had gotten the better of it. Flashes of tan flesh were visible at the neckline and even below, and Goodnight turned to do a mocking bow to avoid studying it any further.

“Mr. Rocks!” Goody cheered, and he laughed at the other man’s raised brow. “Ah, I apologize, Billy. Thank you for coming out.”

“It was really no problem. You are kinder than most to ask rather than expect.”

Goodnight held back a wince. He was quite aware how he came off in this area—privileged to boot. It was a wonder that Billy, a working man to his core, was showing him this kindness.

“So, would you demonstrate?”

Goodnight smiled. “I did promise, didn’t I?”

“Ah,” Billy’s voice was warm. “Your secret power.”

Aware of how close they were to each other—Goodnight did not know who approached who throughout the conversation—he took Billy’s arm and guided him a safe distance back. Billy’s skin was warm to the touch, and as they locked eyes, Goody could see a spark of amusement and something unplaceable.

“Keep your eyes on the first target,” Goodnight advised, feeling the rush of breath almost catch in his throat. Billy did not seem to notice, and he folded his arms as Goodnight stepped away—as if to say, _Impress me_.

Goodnight settled back into position and took a breath. His first time shooting a target was always exhilarating. The mystery of the miss—although, with the amount of skill Goody had worked to accumulate, that mystery was all but solved.

Still, his nerves thrummed quietly through his spine as he raised the piece, inhaled, and exhaled with the shot. The _crack_ reverberated through the trees, and the first sack of grass on a stick dropped. Goodnight let out a _whoop_ and turned to Billy, who was smiling politely.

“Very impressive,” Billy said, though Goody could tell he did not mean it.

“Billy,” he said. “You haven’t seen the best of it yet. Anyone can hit a target a hundred yards out, I’ll admit that much. Billy, I can _call_ targets. And I hit that sack right between the eyes.”

“I believe you!”

Goodnight laughed. “Well, then let’s take a walk. But first—”

He turned and fired at the next three targets, stopping to reload and watching them all drop. He turned to Billy. “Let’s go check my handiwork.”

Billy looked bemused and stayed mostly silent on their walk down the hill to the targets, listening to Goodnight tell the story of his first shot. They were upon the targets quickly, and Billy whistled low when he saw the holes right between the “eyes” of each sack.

“Had a lot of practice on this, then?”

Goody shook his head. “You caught me on my first try. Just made these with Jamie an hour or two ago.”

“And you do that every time?”

“Just about.”

Billy smiled. “How do you do with moving targets?”

Goodnight chuckled low. “Well enough. I don’t mind hunting and all that, but with the amount of practice I like to do, I’d have quite the body count behind me.”

Billy was quiet for a moment. “That would bother you?”

“Ah, and now you sound like my father.”

Billy studied him.

“Tell me,” Goody started. “Do the men in town say the same? I heard a bit yesterday, but—”

“I don’t listen to what they have to say,” Billy said. “Haven’t, since I was nine years old.”

“Is that when you came here? Shit, not to pry, but—”

“No,” Billy said. “I was seventeen when I came here. But I’ve known men like them everywhere.”

“And men like me?”

Billy smiled, flashing his beautiful mouth. Goody froze. “No. I don’t think I have.”

“So, Billy Rocks,” Goodnight shifted. “Anything surprising I should know about you?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

Billy reached down and rolled up his right pant leg, revealing a sheath. He pulled out a hefty hunting knife and Goodnight giggled nervously.

“You came armed to our meeting? Billy, I’m flattered.”

“I always have it on me,” Billy said darkly, and not for the first time in his life Goody realized jokes were not appropriate here.

“What do you do with it?”

It was Billy’s turn to approach Goody and guide him to a safe spot, their skin electric where they touched. Goodnight breathed in as Billy stepped out of his space and turned to the last target.

“It’s not a hundred yards out,” Billy said. “But I can do this much—”

And with that, he let the knife fly through his fingertips, the blade landing smoothly in the forehead of the last dummy, the force knocking it to the ground. Goody shivered at the _thunk_ of metal hitting the wooden pole behind the sack, and he caught Billy’s eyes.

“Show me again.”

Billy laughed. “I will, if you show me yours.”

A moment of silence passed between them, before Goodnight threw an arm around Billy and walked him over to the targets.

“Finn can wait an hour,” Goodnight said, and he reveled in the smile that pulled at Billy’s lips.

\- -

Goodnight took to strolling past the church’s build site several times in the week that followed, and Billy’s hands would sweat each time the man called up to him with a cheerful wave.

And each time, the other men would mutter under their breath and warn Billy to stay away from the family.

Billy knew the fear that this town put into outsiders. Until recently, he had been on the receiving end. He was surprised that all it took was another outsider to push Billy’s status into the inner circle of Rose Creek.

But Billy did not need their support. He found himself drawn to Goodnight, and he wouldn’t let Mason or Dewitt or the others stand in his way.

So when Goodnight came by one day, Billy descended from the roof to talk with him. He never expected that the others would follow.

“If you wanted to come by again for some practice, I sure would love to see you again,” Goodnight was saying. “I mean, your throws and everything—”

“Of c—” Before Billy could get the agreement out, he felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder, and quelled the reflex to throw back a defensive fist.

A look of panic flashed across Goodnight’s face as Mason began to talk.

“Rocks,” he said. “What in the hell are you doing talking to yourself down here?”

“Mason—” 

Dewitt let out a sharp round of laughter and nudged Goodnight out of the way, leaning over close to Mason and Billy and mumbling low.

“You don’t say,” Mason said, his interpretation of Dewitt’s gruff words more accurate than anything Billy could hope to interpret.

“Dewitt says he saw you go to the Pickett farm the other day, Rocks,” Mason said, his hand closed tightly around Billy’s arm. “Does this asshole have you running his errands now too?”

“What does that mean?” Billy turned from him, moved away. He caught Goodnight’s wild eyes off to the side, but Mason and Dewitt had positioned themselves between them.

“Did he tell you why he came here?”

“He doesn’t need to—”

“His family’s trying to buy out the town with Bell. At least Bell has a right to own this land, what with his kin being buried here. Them Robicheauxs are nothing but invaders. And now Bell’s sharing you with them, too?”

Billy felt a bubble of panic in his chest. The level of choice he had in choosing his jobs was special to him, even if it was still a duty that needed to be performed—he hadn’t been compelled to work an unsatisfactory job since he was a child. Yet there was still that fear that it would all be taken away from him, and he would exist as a slave in this sea of whiteness that surrounded him. He was always the Other, in a precarious position, and he wondered if that was all Goodnight saw in him as well.

“That’s not how it is!” Goodnight’s voice cut through the fog, and Billy lifted his head to meet his eyes. They were golden and impassioned— _beautiful_ , a voice somewhere in him said.

“Do you halfwits know nothing? We are only working with Bell to buy some properties out West, not this hellish mountain! Where would the money in that be? Honestly, do the two of you have no sense—”

The next thing Billy knew, Goodnight was on the ground, and Billy’s fist was crashing into Mason’s jaw.

“Mason!” Dewitt said dumbly, hands furling and unfurling as though he couldn’t make up his mind to join the fight. Maybe he couldn’t, without Mason telling him where to direct his blows.

Mason whirled around but didn’t make a move to fight back. 

“Do you really want to make an enemy of this town, Rocks?” Mason said. “If you say this ‘s an accident, I’d believe you. But if it warn’t…”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Billy said, catching Goodnight’s eyes as the man collected himself off the ground. “The Robicheaux family is under my protection, and I don’t want to see any of you snooping around there looking for trouble. Now, I’ll catch you on the roof.”

Mason scoffed and led Dewitt away from the scene. Billy looked over at Goodnight, who was shaking his head in disbelief.

“Mr. Rocks— color me surprised.”

Billy looked at Goodnight’s cheek, which was already blossoming a light red. “I’m sorry—they’re just like this to outsiders.”

“It’s nothing I wasn’t expecting,” Goodnight said. “But I will say—these last few days have been rough. I’m simply amazed that you would come to my defense like that.”

Goodnight’s eyes darkened a little, and he stepped in. He continued, “Even though I know you’ve seen what I can do. Still, your protection is welcome.”

Billy felt the color flood his cheeks, and he shrugged. “I meant it.”

Goodnight held his gaze. “You know, every time I think I know you, you do something else to surprise me. I’m beginning to think it’s an impossible feat.”

“Can you ever know anyone fully?”

“I’d like to try.” Goodnight stepped away, but continued to look at Billy with a level gaze. “I came across someplace last night that I’d like to take you to. Meet me in the Pickett fields tonight?”

“I can—I can try to get out after twilight chores.”

“Please see if you can,” Goodnight said. “I’ll wait anyway.”

Billy worked on the roof and watched Goodnight head out of town, ignoring the stares of the other men.

By the time he reached Goodnight in the fields, night surrounded them, and all the noises that came with it.

“It’s magical,” Goodnight said, and not for the first time Billy wondered at this man and how he viewed the world.

“I’m… quite fond of the mountain,” Billy admitted, as Goodnight led him into the woods at the edge of the field. “It’s where I live.”

“And the town?”

“It’s where I work.”

“I feel that that’s supposed to be switched,” Goodnight said with a chuckle, and Billy didn’t have an answer for him. Not long after, they pushed through a collection of underbrush and, in the dim light, Billy could make it out.

It was a little pond, the overhead moonlight shimmering on the ripples that frogs made as they dove in and out of the water. The sounds of the mountain at night buzzed around them, life making itself known. Billy let out a little huff of breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I’d forgotten this was here,” Billy said.

Goodnight laughed. “And here I thought it would be a surprise.”

“Oh, it is,” Billy said. He gestured with his hand. “Across the way is the Bell property, the very outskirts at least. I’d been to the water’s edge maybe once or twice, but stopped going as I got older.”

Billy could see Goodnight open his mouth to say something, but the other man seemed to think better of it. Instead, he reached to take off his shirt. Billy startled and moved his head quickly to look back to the water.

“Come on,” Goodnight said, throwing his shirt aside. “Care for a swim?”

“I don’t know,” Billy started.

“Please? After today I think we both need to cool down.”

Billy had an inkling that this venture would have the opposite effect on him, but he found he couldn’t begrudge Goodnight the opportunity to have some fun in this town for once. He let a small smile light on his face. “Alright.”

As Billy stripped out of his dusty work clothes, he thought he saw Goodnight pause in his actions, but purposefully kept his eyes on his own. When he had finished, he finally glanced back to the man.

“Ready?” He said. When he received no answer, he turned cautiously. “Goodnight?”

“What? Oh! Yes, yeah, of course!” Goodnight placed a hand between Billy’s shoulder blades, a warm and gentle presence so unlike Mason’s rough grasp that morning. Billy shook the thought of the other man away and focused his attention on Goodnight’s careful pressure, leading him to the pond's edge.

“Let’s go,” Goodnight said with a grin, and he pushed them both into the cold water of the mountain.

When Billy and Goodnight finally surfaced from their fun, and had dried and dressed and sat on the bank looking at each other, only a few words were spoken.

Goodnight said, “Tomorrow?”

And Billy said, “Yes.”

\- -

After the pond, there were weeks of target practice and conversations and laughter and gun smoke and frayed touches, and all of this culminated in a moment. A moment where Billy contemplated the tightness in his chest and decided to act.

Night had fallen and they could no longer see the targets, so they lay in the grass together, breathing in the cool mountain air. Billy had traveled the length of America and still had not found the equal to this—the birdsong, the crisp air, the green things of the mountain. He looked over to tell Goodnight this much, and found the other man with his eyes closed and his lips curled into an easy smile. There it was—that tightness, that chill. Billy could only guess at the feeling, but he was determined nonetheless.

“Goodnight—”

“How long have you been here, Billy?”

“Here?” Billy asked, thinking he had overstayed his welcome. But this was not Goodnight’s way.

“Rose Creek.”

 _Oh_. “Five years.”

“Is it home?”

Billy froze. “That is… an unfair question.”

Goodnight sat up to look back at Billy. “I apologize.”

Silence fell, and Goodnight was still surveying Billy. Billy’s nerves felt raw and exposed under scrutiny. He closed his eyes and heard Goodnight’s next question.

“Would it be unfair to ask… Do you miss it?”

 _Korea_. His parent's homeland, and his by technicality—he had been taken from it so young.

“It is easier here. On the mountain.”

“Why?”

“It reminds me of home.” Billy felt tired suddenly, didn’t feel like talking. “So green. The air is fresh.”

“And that’s how you remember it?”

“Yes.”

“Beautiful.” Billy opened his eyes and saw Goodnight turn away suddenly. “I wish I could say the same. Louisiana is flat… I get winded just walking up an anthill here.”

“Will you go back?”

“Yes.”

 _Of course,_ Billy thought to himself. Goody was not meant for this place, a bored aristocrat shooting bags of mountain grass until nightfall. Billy’s working hands were better suited for the mountain, and even bound by contract Billy saw beauty here where Goodnight did not.

Billy eased the feeling from his chest. It would not work then, his proposition. They were too different.

“Billy—” Goodnight started, but Billy was already collecting himself.

“I need to return, I start early tomorrow—”

“Billy, wait,” Goodnight’s arm caught his and pulled Billy close. Billy felt his pulse quicken. Goodnight looked wild in the night, and his grip on Billy tightened.

“I find,” Goodnight’s breath was heavy on Billy’s lips. “I find myself apart. I am a stranger here, and the community knows it. You alone have shown me and my family kindness these past weeks. I am so grateful for you.”

Billy had seen the sneers as Goodnight walked the streets, had heard the comments— not just from the workers, but from the whole community.

“If I ever seem homesick, it is because I am. But know that I have no regrets meeting you, or for our… friendship. I wish to remain at your side.”

For once, Billy felt that he had all the power. He would not abuse Goody as others had him.

“I’ll be here,” Billy said. “I’ll be your friend.”

Goodnight’s eyes sparkled brightly in the dark, and as Billy stepped away he felt the chill of the mountain air for the first time in a long time.  

* * *

 1857— _Rose Creek, North Carolina_

They were at their spot— _their spot_ , Goody thought warmly—when Finn found him.

“Father needs to speak with you.”

And this was Finn, now, two years since coming to Rose Creek. He had grown cold to fit into the family, in ways that Goodnight could never. Grown cold to fit in with the townies—again, where Goodnight failed.

Goody hated to think that it was his own failure that had forced his brother to change, but maybe this was always coming. At least they were still united in looking out for Jamie.

Goodnight shared a look with Billy, those solid eyes weighing him in place. He passed the knife back to Billy.

“Looks like our lesson will be cut short today,” he apologized, and Billy’s hand grasped his warmly.

“Be careful,” Billy said. Goodnight nodded.

Finn was waiting back at the house by the time Goodnight returned. “He’s in the parlor.”

Goodnight bit back a grimace—this farmhouse had no parlor, and neither did their last house. His family was always desperately cloying at respectability when they had no use for it. Goody dreamed of the day when these frills would not matter—he would be on his own, although maybe Billy—

“Goodnight,” his mother said warmly, taking his coat from him. His father sat on the lounge, puffing away at his pipe and rifling through a paper. So someone had gone to the post office today when Goody refused to. He would place money on Finn.

“Centenary has contacted us to see if you might be interested in attending. They are expanding their enrollment.”

“I—” _Jesus_ , Goodnight thought. “Yes!”

“Jesus,” his father said. The man sighed. “I had always hoped you would prove ready to take over the business by the time you reached this age, but I can see that it is not the case. Finn is three years younger and shows more spirit. If this is what it takes, then I will gladly send you in the hopes you will return with a more… level-head.”

College was something Goodnight had dreamed of since his father told stories of his days there around dinner, back when their family unit was more—united. “Father, I will make you proud, I swear—”

“You had better,” Mr. Robicheaux reached out and grabbed Goodnight’s wrist. “You know what straits our family is facing. You have time now, but that time is running out. When you return you _will_ be ready to take this business into your own hands. Do you hear me?”

A chill ran down Goodnight’s spine. He should have known this would come with a catch. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get out of my sight, then. I’ve contacted your uncle to come and bring you back to live with them for the summer before classes begin. You’ll have time to adjust to the Louisiana climate once more.”

“So soon.”

“You know I don’t approve of the company you keep here,” his father continued. “Your uncle will be here within a fortnight.”

 _College_ , Goodnight’s blood thrilled in his veins. And then… _Billy_.

He thought about not telling him. Two weeks would pass as nothing and then he would tell. He couldn’t have this hanging over them.

Goodnight began to walk, and he passed the copse of trees and the little hill they did their drills on, and he passed the ditch in the road which Goodnight had fallen into once laughing so hard at a joke, where Billy tried to pull him out and only got pulled in. He passed the fields where the farmhands tossed jeers and complaints at him as he walked the lonely road to Billy’s, and where they all fell silent once Billy was by his side. He did not love this cold mountain. He did not love its inhabitants.

He loved Billy.

“Goodnight,” a voice called to him, and he found that he was almost at the Bell household, where Billy was still working his contract. Where Billy told him stories about his childhood, curled up together in the small room where Billy rested his head each night.

“Goody!” Strong arms wrapped around him, and Goodnight looked over his shoulder to find Billy’s bright face right there.

“You maniac,” Billy said. “I was calling for you! What are you doing all the way out here?”

He couldn’t not tell him. “Billy,” he started, and watched Billy’s face fall.

“When are you leaving?”

“How did you know that’s what I was going to say?”

Billy slunk away from him, and Goody missed his warmth immediately. “I’ve always known you were leaving me. You told me that first night.”

“You’re the only thing I never want to leave,” Goodnight said, curling a hand around Billy’s bicep. “I wish I could take you with me.”

“Why do you have to go?”

“I’m going to college, Billy.”

Billy’s expression softened. Goody had told him often about his dreams, and this proved he remembered them all.

Billy’s voice was quiet now, as he asked once more, “When do you leave?”

“A fortnight.”

Billy turned from him again. Goody held on.

“Come with me.”

Billy scoffed. “As what? As your servant? My place in this country is tenuous enough, I can’t— I have a duty.”

“A duty? Billy… what duty? You are so much more than this place.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“What? Billy… I know that…”

“Then what do you need me for?”

Goodnight paused, and Billy saw war in his eyes. “Billy… I may be gone for years.”

Billy turned his head. “And I’ll be here.”

“I know,” Goodnight sighed. “I just wish.”

The night air grew colder, and somewhere in the distance a whip-poor-will sensed a departed soul and caught it with its song. Goodnight closed his eyes and breathed in. When he opened them, Billy was there.

“Two weeks?”

“I’ll be back. I’ll come back… for you. Time has already passed so quickly for us, and it will pass even more quickly—”

“Will it?” Billy’s face was close, so close, and Goodnight could not stand it. This thing had stayed unspoken between them for two years, and still he could not say its name.

He was a coward, but: “I’m not running away,” Goodnight promised. Billy caught his breath.

“I know. I just don’t know how long I can wait.”

Goodnight was being unfair again. Of course Billy could not wait on Goodnight’s return to continue this… whatever this was. But inside he ached because he knew that he would wait for Billy. He would wait a lifetime.

Goodnight leaned in closer, expecting… something; but nothing came. Billy pulled away from him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Goodnight,” Billy said. “And ever after that. But I can’t follow you.”

 _Tomorrow_ , Goodnight thought. _And ever after that_.

Goodnight could not promise the same.

\- -

The time that passed without Goodnight went quickly—Billy was surprised by this. Billy caught himself reflecting on those first few weeks together, which so easily bled into months, and years—and he thought that those had swept by quickly.

But Goodnight’s absence passed unnoticed by the rest of the town, and so time went on.

The tightness in his chest eased with time, too. In fact, Billy sometimes felt foolish for getting so swept up by Goodnight’s charm and wit and… poetry.

And sometimes he just missed him.

Tonight was one of those nights, and Billy sat on the hill where they had often had target practice. Billy fingered the now-dull knife that lay in its holster. Without Goodnight, Billy did not have an excuse to use it. And the temptation of using it on his master was growing every day.

Billy’s hand moved to his side, where he could feel the bruise blossoming—the result of a swift kick Mr. Bell had given him when he found that Billy had missed a row of planting.

All while he’d been trying to remember a song Goodnight had once played for him on the piano—it was truly ridiculous, how he had let himself fall this far. He used to be so good at keeping up the appearance of the strong and stupid worker.

Now, hatred teemed under the surface of his skin; hatred for Mr. Bell and this town, which had driven Goodnight away from him.

Billy sunk back into the cool grass. _That’s unfair_ , he thought. _I couldn’t keep him here, after all_.

Goodnight was always going to go away. He needed to remember that.

He was so caught in his own thoughts that he missed the approaching footsteps until it was too late, and Jamie stood over him, peering cautiously down.

“Mr. Rocks?” The young boy’s voice rang in the darkness.

Billy cleared his throat and scooted forward. “Jamie?”

“I thought you might be here.” Jamie curled into a seated position in front of Billy. “You miss him, don’t you?”

Billy opened his mouth to answer, but found no response. He moved his head slightly forward.

“Yeah,” Jamie said. “Me too. Finn isn’t as fun as Goody was. And Goody never taught me to shoot.”

“What do you need to learn to shoot for?”

“I wanted to be like him.”

Billy had never had a brother, but he thought he could understand the sentiment. Goodnight was impressive even to him, all those brisk movements and careful planning and that free, untapped spirit. Billy had seen the shadow he cast on Finn, and he should have known that Jamie was living in that same shadow.

“Have you—” Billy cleared his throat. “Have you heard from your brother?”

Jamie looked at him, and looked so solemn in the dark of the night. 

“Mr. Rocks—” He began, and then looked away.

“Jamie?” Billy felt something cold clutch at his breast.

“My father is not a nice man to Goody,” Jamie said, voice a whisper. “I’m afraid.”

“For yourself?” Billy asked, pulse racing. If anyone was hurting Jamie—

“No,” Jamie said. “I’m afraid he won’t come back. He hated the mountain. He hated my father. Why would he come back?”

Billy had chased the same thought away before; he still had his doubts. But he would not share those with Jamie. Billy placed a hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “Love is powerful,” he said. “He loves you. He’ll come back for you.”

Jamie studied Billy for a moment. “I guess you’re right.”

The boy stood to leave, but hesitated. “Mr. Rocks…”

He dug his hand in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled envelope. “Sometimes when I’m scared, I sleep in Goody’s bed, and it makes me feel better. I found this in his pillow the first night—it was crinkling in my ear. It has your name on it.”

Jamie passed the envelope to Billy and sure enough, even in the slim moonlight, Billy saw his name in Goodnight’s curling script. It was about all he could read.

“I didn’t read it,” Jamie said. “But I didn’t give it to you either. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Billy smiled. And Jamie ran off into the night.

Billy turned the envelope over in his hands, wondering at its contents. Something crawled into his heart and made its home there, something he had not felt in so long—hope.

He’d just have to have Goodnight read it for him when he returned. 

* * *

1859— _Jackson, Louisiana_

Goodnight was chasing off sleep, hoping to reach the end of the most recent novel borrowed from Professor Webster before he needed to return it. _Beulah_ —published this year by a young woman from Georgia (of all things!)— was a touching if sentimental piece about an ostracized orphan girl, and Goodnight could see that the novel was finally approaching the romance Beulah was destined for. Although he wondered at what a marriage might do to this plucky individualist, he found himself in awe of the love that two people could so clearly have for each other.

It made him—yearn. And it hurt. He did not often think about Rose Creek, and the community that had spurned him… but he did think of Billy.

He wondered where this night had found the man still so beloved to him.

Goodnight had just turned the page when he was jostled from his peace by a quick succession of knocks at the door. He packed away the novel and rose to hesitantly greet whoever might be coming around at this hour. He pulled open the heavy handle and found a woman on the other side, gray dress spattered with mud, her shawl pulled tightly around her middle.

“Lasalle?” Goodnight was shocked to see his sister on the other side of the door.

“Oh, Goody,” her face was puffy with tears, and Goodnight’s heart froze over in terror.

“God, Sally, what is it? You’re scaring me.”

“It’s Father,” she said. “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” For a horrible second, Goodnight pictured his father taking a railway out West with bags of the family’s money, his mother destitute and starving in that farmhouse in Rose Creek. It had been too long since he’d seen them—he’d stayed from them too long.

“Dead, Goodnight.”

 _Dead_. Goodnight felt sick as relief flooded his chest. Not a villain, then—immortalized as a saint. And they still had what money he hadn’t thrown away in investments. Goodnight held out his arms as Sally collapsed in them.

“Mother is traveling back with his body,” Sally explained once he had settled her into a seat with a cup of tea. “And Jamie—oh, how horrible.”

“Traveling? Where?”

“Out from that horrible mountain,” she said. “To New Orleans. Father’s had a plot there for some time.”

“The family cemetery, you mean?”

She nodded.

“And… the business? Finn?” Sally met his eyes and he had his answer.

“He cannot do it alone,” Sally said. “You know this.”

Goodnight sighed into his own tea. “I know this.”

“You’ll go back? To that… that place?”

“I’ll go back,” Goodnight promised. _To him_ , he added silently.

 _I’m coming back_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an exercise in delaying the actual “getting together”, in the hopes that it has a better payoff in the third act. Readers of my other works will know that this is not my strong suit—I typically push people together as quickly as I can.
> 
> A lot of research went into this first half, and although this is not required reading, I will link one article that I found particularly interesting:
> 
> http://www.voanews.com/a/surprise-asians-fought-in-the-us-civil-war-120282254/163158.html
> 
> Originally, the second part of this was going to be all epistolary, but I found this last line to be very compelling and I can see the trend of this line continuing in the other parts. I have quite a few scenes written already that I am very excited about!
> 
> Like I said, this is only very loosely based off of Cold Mountain, but I am grateful that it provided such an inspiring jumping off point.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you will return for the next two parts!


	2. II.

1859— _Rose Creek, North Carolina_

Billy had thought that, with the Robicheauxs gone from town entirely—with the exception of Phineas Robicheaux, who, with an expecting wife, was practically part of Rose Creek—things would return to the way they were. Before Bell’s involvement, before Jamie’s sunny grin, before nighttime swims and target practice, and before Goodnight’s passionate words and the attraction that had blossomed between them.

Billy knew that was what it had been—and maybe something deeper—and a part of him mourned that it was never realized.

And now that the town was bereft of Goodnight and his family—most likely for good—Billy was surprised that it seemed a colder place. Bell was still involved with Phineas, but the loss of Phillippe Robicheaux symbolized the loss of a large investor, and he knew Bell was nervous.

And when Bell was nervous, that extended to other areas of his life—especially his crops and his workers. And increasingly, he was taking out these nerves on Billy.

Billy could bear it if he knew when his contract would end, if he knew when he could leave Rose Creek for good, and set out West. As it stood, Bell was keeping this information from him, keeping Billy busy and afraid. And there was a part of Billy that didn’t want to leave until he knew, for sure, that Goodnight would not be coming back.

He did not expect to get his answer so soon.

He was in the dusty general store, avoiding eye contact with others and posting a notice from Bell to his distributors in the city. He turned from the counter and found himself colliding with a very solid presence.

Rather than apologize, he stepped out of the way and looked to face the heavy weight he had hit—only to find himself face to face with Goodnight Robicheaux.

“Goody?” He blinked.

Goodnight looked a little wide-eyed, and wild as he always had, and Billy felt his heart begin to race. So he was beautiful, still.

Goodnight opened his mouth, but nothing came out except the soft exhale of a laugh.

“I don’t know what to say,” Goodnight spoke softly.

Billy shook his head, and felt the blossom of a smile. “That’s definitely a first.”

A flicker of relief flashed across Goodnight’s face, and something in Billy’s chest grew warm.

“Should we go to our old spot?” He asked.

Goodnight seemed to lean back, to the point where Billy worried he would fall over, but with a quick step Goodnight moved to Billy’s side and took his arm. “I have a better idea.”

Billy was surprised to leave the general store to find that dusk was beginning to settle on Rose Creek. As he followed Goodnight out of town, he was content with the silence that surrounded them, content to watch Goodnight in action. The man took confident strides, and kept trying to meet Billy’s eyes with a wide grin, but there was something so different about him. He was more subdued.

Billy remembered hearing the news of Philippe’s death and his first thought was— _Good riddance_. Goodnight had told him of Philippe’s version of punishment when he viewed something Goodnight had done as an error. It was far different from Abner Bell’s corporal punishment: the Robicheaux patriarch simply acted as if Goody had never existed. To be viewed as a failure as the oldest son and successor weighed heavily on Goodnight, and Billy knew this. He wondered how his father’s death was hitting him now.

“Goodnight,” he started, but Goodnight waved him quiet.

“We’re almost there,” he promised, and that is when Billy recognized where they were. It was the little, overgrown path to the edge of the pond where he and Goodnight had met that first night of their friendship. They had been back a few times, but Billy had always been so embarrassed as they frolicked in the nude, worried that his attraction to Goodnight showed so obviously. They hadn’t gone more than thrice.

“Goody,” he said again, and as they emerged to the water’s edge, Goodnight pulled him close into an embrace. Billy’s hands found purchase on the loose back of Goodnight’s linen shirt, and he breathed in his scent. Goodnight’s arms around him felt like belonging.

“It’s so good to see you,” Goodnight said, his voice quavering. “I cannot tell you what it has been like, being apart from you.”

Billy pulled away, just a little. “I have a fairly good sense.”

Goodnight laughed, and it was so bright it might have blinded Billy. “Of course. Of course you do, Billy.”

He pulled away and Billy rocked back as if he had lost purchase. “Care for a swim?”

“Is this how it will be?” Billy asked. “Picking back up, where we left off?”

Goodnight studied him. “What else?”

Billy had often pictured Goodnight’s return, and a swelling confession, as if something out of a romance tale Fannie Shirley had once told him as she skipped past the fields, hiding from her girlfriends.

He should have known better.

“I’ll race you,” he challenged instead, lifting his shirt above his head. As the cloth slipped over his eyes, he thought he caught a panicked look on Goodnight’s face—gone in an instant.

“Unlikely,” Goodnight called, throwing his own clothes to the ground. Billy was in the water before he could act on anything else.

When they finally surfaced, Goodnight threw his own shirt to Billy. “Use this to dry,” he said. “I have another in my satchel—you know how traveling is.”

Billy did not, had not for a long time. He ran Goodnight’s shirt over his face and tried not to breathe in too obviously.

“You—” Goodnight started. Billy met his eyes with curiosity.

“You called me ‘Goody,’” Goodnight continued. “When you saw me again.”

“I consider us friends, Goody. Even after all this time.”

“So you don’t have a problem—picking up these pieces?” Goodnight shifted his gaze away.

“What is it you’re asking?”

Goodnight hesitated, but only for a moment. “You’re not… angry with me?”

“For leaving?” A nod. “I was. I was angry at you, and with myself, for not keeping you here or—or going with you. But that faded with time, and now, I’m just glad you’re returned.”

Goodnight’s smile was soft. “That’s very mature.”

“I sense that you’ve had to mature as well. You always… You had always told me that this life was not for you. But now you’ve returned, and I can only assume, or question… Are you taking over your father’s business?”

“I am.”

“After all your father said to you…”

“My daddy said a great number of things, all worth dirt now.” Goodnight sighed. “But I owe it to Finn. He’s changed, and I can’t help but think some part of that was my doing.”

Billy knew of what he spoke. The middle Robicheaux brother had been cold for years, and had only grown colder after his father’s death. When Billy passed him on the street, there was not even a glimmer of recognition.

“And… I want to stay with you. Billy, I’ve—”

“Can I ask you something?” Billy interrupted.

“Oh? Of course!”

Billy fished around in his pocket and pulled out the note, still in its crisp, sealed envelope, that had been handed to him by Jamie months ago.

He passed it to Goodnight, and Goody’s eyes went wide with recognition.

“Where did you get that?” Goodnight’s voice was pitched high. He was… afraid, Billy noted with concern.

“Jamie,” Billy answered. “He would go to your bed when he missed you and he found it in your pillowcase.”

“Oh Jesus, oh God… Did he read it? Did _you_ read it?”

“No,” Billy said. He smiled. “And I was waiting for you.”

Goodnight stilled, and Billy stepped forward, placed a hand to his chest, felt his heart flutter beneath the surface.

“Billy—” Goodnight started, but Billy cut him off.

“I waited for you.”

“I know.” Goodnight’s eyes sparkled where they caught Billy’s.

“Was it worth it?” Billy asked. Goodnight sighed.

“That’s an unfair question.”

Billy waited.

“I learned… I learned so much. I had conversations with so many people that weren’t just about business or livestock or the weather—they were about _ideas_. And I’m not saying it was unlike anything we’ve talked about, because you’d opened me up in so many ways even before that—I mean, my worldview.”

Billy felt the same.

“And I loved that about you. You were my saving grace. But it was worth it to be there in that regard.”

Billy hummed and Goodnight turned in closer to him. “I would change one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

Goodnight’s voice was as low as a whisper. “I’d steal you away with me.”

Silence. Then; “I would have followed.”

“Really?”

“I thought I knew my place in this world. I thought I had it set. And then I met you. God, Goodnight—”

Goodnight’s breath hitched. “Yeah?”

“Teach me to read.”

Goody broke into stuttered laughter. “What?”

“I love your words. I thought about all those stupid things you always said to me when you were gone, but I couldn’t remember all of them. If we ever find ourselves apart again, I want to—I want to have you on paper.”

“I pray there won’t come a time we aren’t together,” Goodnight said.

“Even so,” Billy said. “You can write me notes. Come on… I know some, but not all. I know ‘Billy’ but I don’t know ‘Goody.’ I want to… I want to know you.”

Goodnight looked solemn, for a moment, before he buried his face in Billy’s neck and blew out a harsh breath. Billy’s blood thrummed against his skin at the contact, but Billy pushed him away.

“Your answer?”

“Yes. For you Billy, always, yes.”

And Billy was content with the thing unspoken, for now. After all, they had all the time in the world.

* * *

1860— _Rose Creek, North Carolina_

Goodnight was astonished with how quickly Rose Creek was becoming a home for him. Gone were the days when he felt as an outcast in the streets; now, there were bigger things on the horizon, and those who had mistreated him were focused on that. People flocked to the post for news about the growing unrest in the country.

Goodnight kept his nose out of it, and so the rest of them kept away from Goodnight.

Still, Rose Creek—and the newly crowned Robicheaux homestead, née Pickett—was Finn’s home, not Goodnight’s, and Goodnight felt that difference in his bones.

When he felt that way, he found his way to the one who was truly home for him: Billy Rocks, in his little workman’s cottage on the outskirts of the Bell property. Billy had built it up over the past year, with help from some of the other workers, even those who had moved on from associating with Bell. The man had fallen from his lofty position with the death of Goodnight’s father, but he still had a hold on Billy. The fact that Billy had managed to cut out a space of his own in that controlling environment was a miracle, and Billy was so proud of his home.

Although Goodnight did not truly know the sorrow of belonging in another man’s hold, he thought he could relate on some level. Billy respected him, and knew of his past, and had told Goodnight that he would always be welcome.

And so, Goodnight had a home.

He still spent his nights with Finn, and Martha, and the littlest Robicheaux, a girl born on a sunny autumn day. But every hour from when his eyes opened to when they closed were spent with Billy in sight, close at hand, or in his thoughts.

The moments Goodnight truly treasured—though there were a lot of them—were his daily lessons with Billy. The sharing of ideas, and growing to understand Billy’s keen mind, was exhilarating—and he couldn’t help but look forward to those moments when their hands would brush against the pen they shared, or Billy would place a hand on his arm in gratitude over the deciphering of a tough passage.

Goodnight loved Billy’s hands—work-worn and the color of gold, yet soft and adept, and capable of vicious and quick things. Goodnight loved a lot of things about Billy, unsure as he was if they would ever come to fruition.

That afternoon, as Billy found a retreat from his work and the mid-day sun and joined Goodnight in his little home, their study session devolved into a few jabs at each other’s character.

“You are terrible,” Billy was scolding him. “You can’t see that Elizabeth Fields is sweet on you?”

“What? You liar, I have it on good authority that she is waiting on Ethan Miller to complete his apprenticeship. And she’s so young! I would never have her!”

Billy laughed. “Then you lead her on! She does not let anyone else just read the post for free. And _you_ know you can afford it!”

Goodnight nudged Billy. “Alright, I see where this is going. Should I just sit here as you call me ‘cad?’”

“No, but you might stand as I call you a rogue!”

“Will this come to blows?” Goodnight felt his heart thrum in his chest as Billy raised his eyebrow in challenge. He was beautiful in the sunlight streaming through the open window—he was beautiful always.

“Blows it is!” Goodnight launched himself at Billy, waiting with open arms, as they began to tousle as they had done so many times. It was all in jest; an expulsion of feelings. They needed this sometimes.

Goodnight felt his hand creep across Billy’s taut side—made strong with work—and his mouth went dangerously dry. He made to move off of Billy but ended up throwing a knee into Billy’s other side, to be met with:

“ _Ow_ —Goodnight, wait!”

Goodnight pulled back quickly, terrified Billy had noticed something unfortunate about him or, worse, he had actually done some damage.

“Billy? What is it?”

Billy crept out from beneath him, his hand rubbing his side gently.

“It’s nothing, I’m sorry, just… sore.”

Something felt off, and Goodnight needed to get to the bottom of it.

“Billy—” he started, but Billy shook his head.

“Goody, I don’t want you to worry. Sometimes Bell gets notions in his head that upset him, and he knocks me around because of it. I can’t fight back, but I can take it.”

Goodnight felt as if the floor had fallen out from under him. This level of abuse… he wondered how he had not seen it. He wondered how he had not stopped it.

He stood quickly, the blood rushing to his head. “I’ll kill him,” he said.

Billy grabbed for his hand. “What? What are you saying?”

“I-I don’t even know. This can’t happen, not to you.”

“So you’re going to storm out and challenge my boss to a duel, place my livelihood in jeopardy? That’s not how this works, and you know that.” Billy’s eyes were cold as they held Goodnight’s gaze.

“I…” His heart was stuttering in his chest. Billy must have seen the look on his face, and his eyes softened. He stepped in, his hand still grasping Goody’s.

“I know you want to help, but it would take a terrible toll on both of us. You are not a killer.”

“You’ve seen what I can do.”

“That is skill, not intention. They are very different things.”

Goodnight took that to heart. Billy was right—as infuriating as this was, it would have to be dealt with another way. He felt Billy move closer, and moving on instinct, he lifted a hand and placed it on Billy’s cheek.

“It would be nice,” Billy said, his laugh a whisper. “I’m glad… you would do that for me.”

Goodnight’s hand was warm where Billy held it. “Billy… how could I not know? I feel as though I have failed you.”

“It wasn’t happening when I knew you… before. It’s been recently that his temper is flaring. I think my contract is coming to an end soon, but I can’t be sure. It’s maddening.”

“Things are changing, Billy. Everyone is looking at the system, and some don’t like what they see. Change will come for you.”

“I know the change you speak of. And I can tell you there are those here that would not accept it. Your family… would not accept it.”

Goodnight knew that. He rocked back on his heels, let his hands fall away. “I know how my family thinks. I know how I once viewed the world. But that’s all changed now.” He hesitated. “You… You’ve helped to change that.”

Billy scoffed. “Just because you know a working man?”

Goodnight felt the silence as it stretched on. “Aren’t we more than that, Billy?”

He gave this power to Billy, again and again. And Billy was always merciful. He smiled, “I suppose we are.”

And yet, Goodnight did not want things to go back to the way they were. He felt change on the horizon every day, and it would come for them too. One day.

“And Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“Elizabeth Fields is not my type.”

As he left, he hoped someone understanding would let Billy know in the morning that Abner Bell’s business with the Robicheaux brothers had come to an end.

* * *

1861— _Rose Creek, North Carolina_

The day that it happened, Goodnight received a letter in the post from Jamie, his beloved brother.

_Goodnight_ , it read. _Mother is well, and thinks of you often. Do you ever read the news? My friends and I often speak of what will happen if a war comes—I find myself quite excited! If only because then I will get to see you again—I hope you will come home soon. I think I know why you have stayed so long, though, and I understand. Please tell Mr. Rocks I said, Hello!_

_Please tell Finn and family I say hello too._

_Best wishes, Jamie_

And Goodnight knew that Jamie knew, and in an odd way, had given his blessing. Goodnight suspected Finn had long known, as well, as he always had a faint look of acknowledgment when Goodnight came back from Billy’s, a look he often shared with his wife. Goodnight did not know why, but the immediacy of the letter—nonetheless his concern for his youngest brother, excited by war—crept up on him, and Goodnight could not stand to be idle a moment longer.

It was time.

He took off in a mad run for the Bell property, hoping to catch Billy at the end of his work day, in his home—in _their_ place. The place they had carved out for themselves, with the little target range in the back, and the path that led to the water’s edge, the side of the pond that they had often gazed at from their first spot. It was theirs, just as he was Billy’s, eternally.

And he needed Billy to know that.

The fear built in his chest, the fear Goody had lived with all his life, but he ignored it now. He would take what Billy gave him, but their time had come.

Billy was working near the trees, setting traps for his supper, when Goodnight approached, flustered, out of breath, a smile burning its mark on his face.

“Billy!” He called, and Billy Rocks turned, and Goodnight’s heart skipped a beat.

“Goody?”

Goodnight took two steps forward, saw Billy walking towards him in turn, and his breath rattled in his chest.

“Billy Rocks,” he said. “I have something to confess.”

Billy was so close, and the laugh that escaped him was as a breeze on Goodnight’s lips.

“Please,” Billy said.

“Billy—” he could not stop, the words clawing their way free finally after _years_. “Billy Rocks—”

If Goodnight had known, on that first day in Rose Creek, what a little promise made to himself would come to, there would be nothing on God’s green Earth that would stop him from making it. This man was his first love, his true love, and his best friend above all. He was in love with Billy Rocks, and always would be.

And now, he was making this known to the man.

Billy had frozen in place, but Goodnight continued.

“I’ve thought of that promise every day. I thought it was about survival, but I see now it was destiny. We go together, Billy Rocks. But I’ll leave it to you to decide if we should _be_ together.”

Goodnight took a deep breath, his throat full of fire. “You can have some… some time, if you’d like that.”

“Time?” Billy blinked slowly. “Goodnight Robicheaux… I’ve had more time than I’ve known what to do with. I was a… I was a fool for not making my intentions known. Goody, I love you, and always will. We’ll go together for as long as you’ll have me.”

It was a rush—Goodnight fell into Billy, and Billy into Goodnight, and when their mouths met it was all heat and a little bit of pain as their teeth clacked together. They broke apart, laughed, and held each other close, and when they met for the second time it felt like peace.

“I love you,” Goodnight whispered against Billy’s lips. “I’ll be with you forever.”

Billy shivered against his chest and Goodnight felt a flush rise to his face.

As they parted ways, Goodnight couldn’t shake the notion that he should have made another promise to Billy. He just wasn’t sure what it was.

The next morning, Goody went to church, although he had not done so in a long time. Finn and Martha had asked, and Goodnight was so giddy that he thought he would spread the good cheer and agree. He had time to see Billy later that day, and ever after that.

The service started slow, and Goodnight drifted, until in the middle of a grand hymn, whispers broke out in the pews behind him. As the congregations’ voices swelled, the angelic refrain was interrupted by a man’s harsh call.

“It’s happened!” He cried. “We’re going to war, boys!”

Goodnight’s world fell away.

He was jostled out of the church, the celebration swelling around him, and found that his legs carried him even further—down the path, past the town, heading straight for Abner Bell’s property—heading for Billy.

He found him in the fields, eyes solemn and stuck on the work of the body. Somehow, somehow, he knew.

They locked eyes, and everything fell into place.

“You got your war,” he said, and his voice had no emotion.

Goodnight could only think, _It’s not mine. Billy, it’s not mine and you know it._

Billy looked at him with recognition. “But you’ll fight?”

Goodnight looked away. His mind felt blank.

“Then I’ll wait.”

That shook him, down to his very core. He whipped his head up. “I can’t ask you to—Billy, I can’t ask you to!”

“You don’t have to.”

Billy stepped forward, took him by the arm, and led him away—away from the road, away from this harsh reality.

Goodnight would not deny it—he had spoken of war with his brother. He knew it was an option. And he was scared of it—scared of the lives that would be lost, the way of life that would be lost. He was a coward, afraid of change. But he was a coward who would fight for his family.

Even now, that part of him wanted desperately to ask Billy to come with him, but he knew that would be unfair. Goodnight could not ask Billy to follow him into battle when the real reason— the only reason— he was going was to protect him. He needed to go to war to make sure his loved ones reached the other side.

Rose Creek was distant, and would be far from action, and Goodnight could rest easy on the battlefield knowing this was where his heart was.

He told Billy this, nestled in the copse of trees, nestled in Billy’s strong embrace—home. And Billy listened, and Billy held him, and told him he would wait.

Goodnight did not care about the South. It was his home, but it was broken the same way his real family had been. This— Billy’s hands, his mouth, his mind—he cared about this, and he would do anything to preserve it.

And if Billy was still waiting on the other end, then Goodnight would fight for that.

\- -

It came too soon, as Billy knew it would. A quick knock on his door, just as dusk fell, and on the other side, Goodnight. Soaking wet, the storm  roaring outside, and a cautious smile on his face.

“Billy Rocks,” he said, dripping rainwater onto the floor. “Can I stay the night?”

Billy’s heart raced. “You infernal idiot—of course.”

Goodnight fell into his arms, and Billy felt his shirt soaked through, but he could not care. The door swung shut behind them, and Goodnight’s chest heaved against his, and Billy pretended that it was from the slight chill in the cool April air.

Billy nearly lost the time, he was so caught in the feeling of Goodnight’s body against his; but, when he began to feel the other man shiver he broke away, looking quickly from the man’s broken face.

“I have some clothes that might fit,” Billy said, gesturing to his trunk. “You should change.”

Goodnight nodded with a lost expression, and he set down his bag beside Billy’s bed.

As he stripped out of his wet clothes and changed into the fresh ones, Billy sat and watched intently. Goodnight noticed and, with color flying to his face, he challenged Billy with a look.

Billy did not say, _I’ve wanted this for years_. He did not say, _I’ve wanted you for years._

“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I thought this would be okay.”

Goodnight approached him on the bed, and cupped his face, and pressed their foreheads together.

“God, Billy,” he said, his voice strong. “It’s more than okay.”

Billy surged forward and caught him in an unforgiving kiss, and Goodnight met him in kind.

After a moment, Goodnight broke away with a low moan, and collapsed on the bed beside Billy. He buried his face into his neck.

“I can’t help but find myself wanting—”

Billy knew. He collected Goodnight, so they could see each other as they were. “I want desperately to follow,” he said. “To stay at your side.”

Goodnight nodded solemnly. “We’ve lost so much time already—I’ve _left_ you already. I can’t stand this cycle.”

“I’d break it, if I could,” Billy said. “But this isn’t going to college with you. This would mean joining the military, and without permission—”

“I know,” Goodnight spoke quietly. He rested his head forward, and Billy lifted it gently.

“We will survive this.”

Goodnight shivered, and Billy knew his fear at that moment.

“Goody… This time we’ll have something we didn’t before. You know how much I care for you, and I’ll show it in any way I can.”

Goodnight sighed. “That’s right.”

He reached for his bag, and Billy felt cold the moment Goodnight pulled away from him.

“Remember what I taught you,” Goodnight said, pressing pen and paper into Billy’s hands—and something else. “Don’t sign your name. I’ll know it’s you.”

“God, Goodnight—”

“Billy,” Goodnight breathed a shuddering breath. “Should I read it to you?”

Billy looked at the paper in his hands and knew immediately what he meant, and his chest grew warm. Billy’s eyes flashed brightly. “Please.”

Goodnight shifted nervously, placed himself at Billy’s knees. Billy edged forward until he straddled Goodnight, the letter placed between them. Glancing at the page, Billy’s eyes caught a few solid words that made his pulse race. He steadied himself and met Goodnight’s eyes, who held them and began, almost without looking:

“My dearest Billy Rocks, I am a coward. I think of what I want to say to you and, instead of saying it, I scrawl furiously at the page until the ink washes away my fear. I love you.”

Billy’s breath caught in his throat, and Goodnight looked up nervously. “Go on.”

“From the moment I saw you, I knew no man owned you. But still I wished you might find your way to my side. Those first days I watched you any moment I got, your golden skin like a god’s in sunlight, your muscles like a vice that caught my heart. I ached for you, but more than that, I wanted to know your mind. And I wanted you to know mine.”

Billy studied Goodnight’s soft flush in the candlelight, and made a decision.

“I— _fuck_!” Goodnight yelped as Billy pressed a careful palm against his groin, which, just as Billy suspected, was full and emanating heat. Billy stroked upward and Goodnight groaned loudly, eyes glancing at Billy frantically.

“Keep going,” Billy ordered. Goodnight pressed upward and nodded.

“I take myself in hand when I think of your skill, your talent, and think of what you might do with me in bed, if ever we got there. I am ashamed to admit the number of times I’ve contemplated your girth, having seen your outline in our nighttime swims—I want to know what it would feel like, filling me from inside.”

“You’ll get there,” Billy promised, and Goodnight threw his head back with a low moan as Billy found his way past the opening of his trousers.

“I want to be alone with you on this mountain, and I want you to claim me and keep me as your own,” Goodnight read from memory, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “I want to run away with you, and stay with you, and be with you always. I love, I love—”

Goodnight stuttered as Billy slunk to his knees, hitting them sharply on the wooden planks of the ground. Billy held the base of Goody’s cock still as he took it in his mouth, and Goody yowled as if he’d been bit.

“I love you,” Goodnight continued, his breath ragged as Billy traced his tongue over Goody’s slender shaft. “And if there is a chance in this world that you love me too, I promise that I will always be yours, and will only ask to know you in turn, and never own you.”

Billy’s heart beat steady as he listened to Goodnight’s confession, lavishing attention on Goody’s cock. With one last careful suck, Goodnight’s fingers found purchase in his hair, and his hot cum spilled past Billy’s lips and dribbled onto the floor. Billy dragged a rag from his bed and threw it to the ground, rising and grabbing hold of Goodnight’s face.

“And never own you,” Goodnight finished. “Or ask you to follow.”

“I would,” Billy said softly. “I would if I could.”

Goodnight dragged his thumb across Billy’s lips and pulled him closer, so that Billy could rut against Goodnight’s spent cock. As Billy moved, Goodnight babbled French incoherently into Billy’s neck. Billy came quickly, with Goodnight’s name in his throat.

They fell into bed and Goodnight threw the rough blanket over them. Billy was glad for the pretense, knowing Goody could not spend the night. Billy reached down and found the letter, held it out to Goody. Goodnight pressed it to Billy’s breast.

“Keep it and know—I mean every word.”

“Goodnight,” Billy whispered his name, and the other man shut his eyes tightly. Billy shook his head.

“I’ll be here,” he promised, “when you wake up.”

He found he could not say, _and when you return_.

 

* * *

 

_My Only Love._

_When I think on how far I’ve traveled from you, I can hardly believe only a month has passed. I watched the mountain fall behind me, not for the first time, and felt relief—until I remembered what I was leaving behind._

_I think of you always, even when orders are barked at me by officers, and even when I need to bark my understanding back. I think only of you._

_That might be dangerous, but I find I can’t stop._

_I can’t stop loving you._

_Goodnight._

..

_Goodnight… forgive the ink. My hand shakes as I write this, with an unnamed emotion. Is it love? Is it… anger, that this war would tear you away from me so soon? I would not share with you what I have seen already, and I fear for this town as the war progresses._

_But they will survive; the worst lot always finds a way. I worry about you, my sweet Goodnight. I have seen the coldness of men, but you are still green. What waits you on the field? What horrors lie that I cannot protect you from?_

_I wish I were at your side, and not held prisoner here by a coward’s bonds._

_I cannot ask anything of you except: stay safe._

_B—_

..

_My love, I see you in my dreams every night, and I am thankful for your presence. Often, I find myself too alone out here, with not a thing to do. And so, I think._

_When I think, your image sometimes fades from view—already, I have learned lessons on the battlefield they did not teach in school. I have learned a great number of terrible things. And so, I think._

_I think… you’ve got to hate what you’re shooting at._

_Sometimes, I find myself thinking about who I was when I was with you, and the love I felt. I worry about that love disappearing under the weight of all this hate._

_Your Goodnight_

..

_Goodnight— the snow is falling fast here. Are you warm? B—_

..

_My sweet and only love, the snow here glistens and blinds. It is dangerously cold. The thought of you warms my blood, but only through the night. By day I am met with a very different sight, different thoughts—_

_You are a constant I will not lose._

_Goodnight._

..

_G— I will not lose heart, though every week that passes without hearing from you makes it beat sluggish, unaided. I curse the chains of duty that keep me from joining your side. I curse the war that separated us first. B—_

..

_Love, I ache for the day we will meet again. I ache for your words to come through this hell, and carry me somewhere else. I ache for God to carve a path for us to be together again. My bones ache with the weight of gunpowder, and I cling to these few letters to survive. I pray that another makes it through the line._

_Love._

..

_Love, I have a new name. The soldiers whisper it behind my back. I fear you may not even recognize me upon my return. Oh, say that you will remember me. I remember you._

..

_The things I have seen cannot efface your image. I carry it with me in a place unnamed, but I feel it, even in the crush of battle. With no word, I fear you have forgotten me, but I swear I have not forgotten you. I remember Rose Creek. Even when I have forgotten my own name, I will remember Rose Creek. I will always come home to you._

..

_Love, I remembered something today. It has been said to me, often in Korean: at the end of hardship comes happiness. I think if this is hardship, I will know happiness. I imagine you home so often, I will it to become reality. I see you walking in my dreams, surrounded by snow. Wherever you are, I will you to give up the fight. I will you to come home. Come home to Rose Creek. I will fight in your place. I will fight for us._

_I do not know if my words will break through your heart, but I hope my spirit reaches you. If your finger is on the trigger, aim true—_

_Aim to come home._

_Billy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience as I work to complete this!
> 
> If you are interested in reading further about letter writing during the Civil War, here is a resource I found:
> 
> https://postalmuseum.si.edu/letterwriting/lw04.html
> 
> It's pretty interesting stuff! I tried to accurately portray the environment these characters exist in, and it's definitely a challenge, but a welcome one.
> 
> The next part will be significantly darker to match the tone of both "Cold Mountain" and "The Magnificent Seven," but a happy ending is on the horizon, I promise.
> 
> Thank you for your continued interest in this story!


	3. III.

July, 1865— _Chattanooga, Tennessee_

A soft summer breeze filled the train station, but Goodnight hardly felt it, he was so tightly wrapped in his mother’s arms.

It was hard to release her, separated as he had been from his family for so long—and now, from his brothers, eternally. She was all he had now, in this moment—and she would soon be leaving to travel to Lasalle.

“Will you be alright, mama?” He asked, hesitating before pulling away. The smoke of the train station surrounded them, and he knew her train to Georgia had arrived.

“I suspect I will live with Lasalle at the start,” she said. Sally would be collecting her in Georgia, ruined as it stood. At least Lasalle’s husband had survived the war, and would be staying with them as protection. It killed Goodnight that he could not travel by her side, but he had other tasks to accomplish.

“… but your uncle has promised me a stake in his new endeavor,” his mother continued. “Can you imagine that? Me… a shareholder!”

Goodnight laughed softly. “I’m proud of you, mama.”

She grasped his face. “And I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of my son.”

Tears were streaming down her face, and Goodnight had to look away. Mrs. Philippe Robicheaux surveyed the train station, the aged faces of veterans in still-young bodies, and those that walked with missing limbs, or missing companions, and then looked at her son. It pained her to see how well he fit in here.

“Are you sure about this?” She asked, one more time. “Your sense of duty has always been strong, Goodnight, but this is—”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Goodnight nodded. “I need to do it for him.”

“I cannot say I understand, but I know he’d be grateful to you. You always took such good care of your b-brothers,” her voice broke, and Goodnight held her once more.

“Finn deserves this,” he said. “Come on, it’s time to get you to Georgia.”

When his mother had gone, Goodnight truly felt the cold of the train station, sunny as it was. All of the South felt cold since the end of the war, not two months ago. Goodnight had returned to an empty house—his mother in Tennessee with family, his sister in Georgia, his brothers in the ground. Louisiana had been abandoned fully—it was no longer his home.

As he had rode to meet his mother, he thought about that place that still called to him after all these years. He had not expected to receive his letters back from the post after the war, but he did—all unsent, all unopened. Billy had received maybe one letter, two at most. What had he thought? Had he continued to send them, even though it was pointless?

It did not matter now. Goodnight had not heard anything from the man he still loved dearly, but he did not think it would make a difference. He had seen other soldiers move on from their loved ones, or return to find their sweethearts married and with child. The war took its sacrifice in so many ways.

Still, Goodnight was going back to Rose Creek. He was going to collect Martha Hayes and her child, little Susanna Robicheaux. He was going to ensure their safety, now that Finn could not do it himself.

He could not travel by train to the mountain—he doubted it would ever be possible—so he used a fair bit of coin to pay for a horse to carry him on the week-long journey.

It was a fit mare, midnight black and not unlike the one that had carried him for years during the war, once he had risen ranks. She had been beautiful too. Goodnight closed his eyes and tried to will away the picture of her thrashing against the bloodied ground, her legs mangled by a cannonball blast. His mercy shot had been swift, and he still heard the crack.

Goodnight fought to steady his breathing. It would not do to continue on in this way. He had a mountain to climb.

* * *

 August, 1865— _Rose Creek, North Carolina_

Rose Creek was the same as it had ever been. Goodnight stilled his heart at the familiar sites and the memories they drew up. He found himself looking for a face in the crowd but stopped himself, his knuckles white around his horse’s reigns. He was proud of how she’d bested the trails, and was thinking of keeping her. As he dismounted and tied her to the post outside the store, he found himself contemplating names.

“Is that… Robicheaux? Is that you?”

A voice sounded from the porch, rough and unfamiliar. Goodnight looked up and saw one of Finn’s friends, a farmer’s son who had lost his leg in an accident as a child. He had been passed over in the draft—Goodnight wondered at what he’d felt, staying here all this time. He wondered if he’d heard news of Finn.

“What did Finn call you… Goodnight?” The boy—a young man now, Goodnight corrected—let out a solemn laugh. “What brings you here?”

Goodnight opened his mouth to respond, and then he heard it:

“Is Finn with you?”

So the town did not know.

“I…” Goodnight began. His head began to swim, memories clouding his view of reality. He took a steadying breath and laid a hand against his mare’s flank. The solid heat of the animal did its job—it grounded him. “I’m sorry that you have not heard. Finn was killed two years ago, in Gettysburg.”

A sharp intake of breath, and the man turned away. Goodnight was not surprised by this reaction—although he was surprised that Martha had chosen to mourn so quietly. Goodnight watched the unsteady gait of the man as he walked away from the scene—he would flee too, if he could.

The news had come last year, Finn’s body already long in the ground. It had been shocking, but Goodnight had always known. Few had escaped that battle, and those that did had much to say. Goodnight had met a boy from Georgia who had run supplies across the front in Gettysburg, and had been sent back South to recover after what he’d seen there. Goodnight did not know what good it did him—the boy ended up with a bullet between the eyes in Spotsylvania. Goodnight shot the man who did it in return—he’d liked Georgia.

But war was not made on grudges. And Goodnight grew tired of fighting. Finn had been a sharp blow, but the grief faded quickly.

Goodnight was still recovering from Jamie’s loss.

“Goodnight?”

Here she was, Martha in her quiet beauty. Goodnight had always admired the woman’s lean features—now, she looked a bit gaunt. Goodnight hid his concern.

“I wondered where I should meet you. I thought you might be… here,” he added, with a pleasant gesture to the town.

Martha had been expecting him, but she still looked a little lost. “Of course,” she said. “I was picking up…”

She trailed off, and Goodnight noticed the apothecary bag in her hand. Panic flashed through his brain.

“Susanna?” He asked, his voice tight. Martha jumped.

“Fine, she’s fine.” She hesitated. “She’s been whooping the past few weeks, but we’re over the worst of it. I was just picking up a tonic of turpentine, we’ve been applying it—”

“I’m sorry, Martha,” he said. He stepped forward, and she fell into him slightly. He was a little surprised—they had never been close. “I hate to ask, but can I help with paym—”

“Don’t think of it,” she said. “I’m settling soon.”

“Settling?”

She pulled away. “Phineas never had designs to stay here for long. He talked of going West…”

“West? But I’ve come to—Martha, I was going to bring you home—”

“Home? What’s home?”

Goodnight hesitated.

“Oh Goodnight, I’m sorry, but with Phineas gone, I’m not—”

“But you are,” Goodnight interrupted. “You’re a Robicheaux, Martha. You are. You are.”

He watched the tears flood her eyes. “You’d let me keep your name?”

“Of course. Of course, it’s your name,” he said. “And Susanna’s. And you are welcome home at any time.”

“I… thank you, Goodnight.” She wiped her eyes, led him away from the street. “Thank you. But Phineas dreamed of going West. I want to see his dream realized. Would you… do you think you could help us? Help us get everything in order here? I don’t think… that is, I’ve had some trouble selling the farm, even as Phineas’s w-widow…”

Goodnight thought he understood. “Of course.”

“It may take—”

“I’ll be here for as long as you need me,” he promised. He didn’t add that going home didn’t feel like that for him, either.

“Besides,” she said, placing a cool hand in his. “I think you’ll be interested in some developments in town, recently.”

“Martha, I—”

“Your Billy Rocks has had some hard knocks,” she said, her voice low. “Ever since the captain of the Home Guard turned up dead, right at the end of the war.”

“Home Guard?” Goodnight had seen them occasionally in towns across the South, keeping order with uncultured scare tactics and violence. They had frightened him, some even more than the Yankees or higher officers.

“You didn’t know who the captain was? People are saying Rocks killed him.”

“Who?” Goodnight felt his hand tighten around hers. “Who was it?”

“Abner Bell,” she said, pulling away. She gasped. “Look, there he is now.”

And Goodnight turned, and saw him slip out of town, a heavy canvas bag thrown over his shoulder, like the haversack that soldiers carried rations in. Goodnight saw him, and then he was gone.

“Billy,” he said into the air; but there was no one to answer the call.

\- -

Billy knew what he had seen. He hurried back to his house on the edge, barren as it was, heartbeat in his throat. He knew what he had seen.

Goodnight Robicheaux, back from the dead, back _home_ , just as Billy had been about to slip out of Rose Creek forever.

He prayed that Goodnight had not seen him. How could he explain to the man that he had been about to leave, knowing that Goody might return someday. And to leave on the day that he _had_ returned… Billy would never have been able to forgive himself.

He dug through his bag and found the slim stack of letters, one of the few possessions he had left, tied neatly with a leather thong. On the top lay that first love letter, which Billy had worn thin with reading. Below, those first few letters he had received from Goody. Below that, Billy’s own letters, marked with the stamp of the Dead Letter Office and “Return to Sender.”

Billy was honestly amazed that he had gotten them back. He knew of others in town who did not have the same luck, and still others who could not read them if they even had received any letters.

Billy stooped to sit on his bed and contemplated what he held in his hand. Years of loving and learning Goodnight, and everything that came with him. Years that had been overshadowed of late by war, and famine, and violence.

He had almost been pushed out, and pushed away from Goodnight. And it was all Abner Bell’s fault.

Billy’s skin crawled as he thought of that night, and Bell’s words, and Bell’s hands coming down, his knife at his side—

A quick rap at the door startled him, and the racing of his heart flooded his ears as he stood. If this was—could he face him?

Billy threw open the door.

“What are you doing here?” The man pushed in, pushed Billy to the side, his voice thick with concern.

“Mason,” he said, turning away. Mason had returned from the war early, had trekked across valleys and mountains to come home, body broken and mind destroyed. He had lost friends early in the war, and his cousin, Dewitt, had been the last straw. Bell had called him, _deserter_. Bell was not here anymore.

Any feelings of distaste for Mason had long evaporated in the heat of war. Mason had stood by Billy’s side at the end, when the Home Guard came down on them both. Billy had stood by Mason through the worst of the nightmares, had given him shelter. And Mason had given Billy the courage and supplies needed to finally flee.

“Why did you come back?” Mason continued. “I saw you from the window.”

Mason had taken Bell’s land, and the town had let him—deserter or not, Mason had been respected in the community, and would continue to turn a profit for everyone as he worked the land. Billy would not have been given the same opportunity, but he did not begrudge the other man.

“Billy?” He was still waiting for an answer. Billy did not think he had one to give.

“I can’t explain it,” he said after a beat. “I think I’ve left something unfinished.”

Mason glanced down, and Billy tucked the packet of letters into his pocket.

“Billy,” he said. “If he’s come back, he’s not goin' to be the same.”

 _You don’t know that_ , he wanted to say. But did he know any better?

“I owe him something,” Billy said. “An explanation. I couldn’t just leave—”

“People leave all the time,” Mason said. “He’s seen what I’ve seen. He knows.”

Mason leaned in, and Billy held his position. “Do you even know what they call him?”

Billy was not naïve, had never been given the chance to be. He’d seen bloodshed since he was a child, had seen his parents and friends face violence. He’d lived it. He knew what it looked like on the domestic front.

But even he had to admit he had not seen war on the scale that Mason—and Goodnight—had.

“They dubbed him the Angel of Death.”

Billy’s blood ran cold. He thought of Goodnight, turning his nose up at hunting, who always was steady with his shots but had never considered using them on another person. He thought of Goodnight who had rushed to the solution of a duel so quickly, only to back down at Billy’s insistence that he was not a killer. Billy had believed that to this very day.

But Goodnight had survived a war. Surely that came with a price.

“I never seen him,” Mason continued. “But I heard ‘bout him, even in my camp. Twenty-three confirmed kills at Antietam. But that’s just what the people who weren’t there report. Boy comes into camp one day and says he seen the Angel of Death in action. Says that number was far too little for what he seen.”

Billy let himself rock back, just a little, and contemplated what he was hearing.

“I can’t say I’m glad you’re back,” Mason said, the hint of a smile on his grim mouth. “But if you can do for him what you done for me, then maybe it’s a good thing.”

Billy nodded slowly, beginning to understand something. Mason had killed too. Mason knew that Billy had killed, too. Maybe they all had something to run from, and maybe they could all help each other. Billy would stay, for Goodnight.

“Promise me one thing,” Mason said, turning to face the door.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t let the bastards catch you.”

\- -

“How is she?” Martha called from the other room. Goodnight did not blame her for it—he crinkled his own nose to ward off the thick smell of turpentine.

“Snug as a bug,” he called back quietly, pressing a kiss to Susanna’s slick forehead. She met her uncle’s eyes and smiled, the dull glow already shining a little brighter, brighter than it had been in the past few days and, Goodnight suspected, prior weeks.

“Thank you,” Martha said as he closed the door behind him. “I’ve made your bed for the night. Please, you don’t have to keep all your stuff in your bag, as you’ve been doing. I’ve cleared out a few drawers for you.”

“That’s mighty kind, Martha,” he said with a nod. “Just not used to having so much space.”

She looked surprised at that. “But surely, at the Robicheaux place—”

He looked away. “I didn’t stay for very long.”

“Oh—of course,” she said. “Goodnight—”

“You don’t need to say it.” He knew, he always knew, when condolences were on the tip of someone’s tongue—the way their face turned around the apology, their eyes cold with fear, even if they had only good will behind the sentiment. Martha let her face grow warm. Relief, Goodnight was surprised to recognize.

“I’m sorry. I understand, I—I have only told family about Phineas. Their reactions were so painful, I couldn’t have the whole town—although, I know it’s cruel, he was loved by many here…”

Goodnight shook his head. “This time is yours. Finn would want you to take care of your own first and foremost.”

He was about to turn in, when Martha caught his arm. “I do want to thank you,” she said. “For the—for letting us keep his name.”

Goodnight smiled. He knew the importance of a name. Even after all fell away, sometimes it was what kept him going in the dark of battle. One name.

“It’s yours,” he said. “It was never mine to give.”

The small room had been his before, when he lived at this property the second time, with Martha and Phineas taking the master and baby Susanna taking the room the boys had shared. This had been his father’s office, an offshoot of the pretend parlor his family had aspired to. That was all gone now, of course—Martha had chosen to set a dining room as the focal point of the house. Goodnight loved it already, even now that it was just the three of them.

Although Martha’s reach extended here, too, Goodnight still saw the corners of the room and thought, _this is where he worked_. This was where his father worked his life away, and this house was where he had died. This house, like all others, was not his home.

But the fields outside, where he had roamed for hours with Billy—and the pond, where they swam, and the roads, where they walked, and the grass, where they lay. And where they had kissed. Once, Goodnight had loved it all, and it had been home. Once, Goodnight had left it all.

Now, he was back, and Billy—Billy was still here.

Goodnight lay in bed and thought about Billy. The bag over his bag had been full, and the direction he’d been heading was back to the Bell farm, but—would he not have been coming from there? Goodnight had not seen him pass by on the main street of the town, as invested as he was in Martha’s company. Had Billy turned when he saw him?

Goodnight turned on his side and felt a chill. Had Billy… been leaving?

Goodnight would not begrudge him if he had been. Four years, and more on top of that, was a long time to wait. Was it possible that Billy had sensed how broken Goodnight would be on his return? Had Billy sensed Goodnight’s own doubt about returning at all?

No, Goodnight could not find any fault in Billy’s actions.

He reached down blindly to locate his bag, found the flask he was looking for, and brought it to his lips. He had not had a drink since making it up the mountain; but he knew by now the feeling of a restless sleep on the horizon. A little joy juice might be enough to keep the memories at bay for tonight.

Goodnight felt the harsh liquor hit the back of his throat; with three more doses, his head was ready to hit the pillow.

He woke with the sound of gunshots in his brain, rattling his skull. The shout caught in his throat and, becoming aware of his surroundings, his first thought was of little Susanna in the next room. Sweat beading on his forehead, he worried that he had awoken her, when she needed the rest with her illness.

He swung his legs off the bed and moved to lace his boots. He would take himself outside.

Morning was cresting over the mountain, the summer sun making the grass misty as it evaporated the dew. Goodnight inhaled calmly—it may look like gun smoke, but it did not have the tang. He was safe here.

His feet carried him to the old range. His hand felt empty, but he was glad for it—he had not been able to fire a weapon in a long time. The ground felt all too familiar under his boots, and he strolled across the field until he collapsed, head clear for the first time in a long time.

Goodnight breathed in the morning air, and heard behind him cautious footsteps. He ignored the burst of white panic in his chest—tried to remember the safety he had clung to a second ago. There was no war here.

“Goody?”

_God._

Goodnight turned and saw him, approaching now.

“Billy.”

Billy Rocks stopped where he was, about three strides away. Goodnight was keenly aware it was the closest they had been in five years.

Goodnight was often surprised at how his mouth could run away from him, even in these times, when he never felt like speaking to anyone.

“I didn’t expect anyone out at this hour,” he said. “But it was such a lovely morning, I just had to come here and sit a while. Does that ever happen to you? Just this—wild, anxious need to be out of doors?”

“Not so often,” Billy replied, and Goodnight was glad he went along with it. He flashed him a simple smile.

“It’s funny,” he said. “I was so excited to see this when I first came; I thought it was the perfect place to shoot. Now, I don’t even think I can pick up a gun.”

“Goodnight—”

“Please,” he continued. “I don’t deserve your pity.”

He felt Billy approach, but he had long since closed his eyes to the world.

“It’s not pity,” Billy was saying. “It’s—”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

Billy was silent. Goodnight glanced over and saw that he was sitting a little further up on the hill. He was wearing a thin cotton shirt, and his hair was longer now, and framed his face in jet black waves. He looked older, and still more beautiful—Goodnight was sure he looked a fright.

“This was the place,” Billy started, “where I came when Bell would beat me. Before, the first time you went away.”

There was no silence between them, but there was birdsong, and the dull hum of cicadas calling from the trees.

“Jamie found me here once.”

Goodnight pressed his eyes tightly together, embraced the sting of it.

“He had your letter in hand. I had—I had been ready to give up on you, and myself, at that time. Your letter kept me going, those years that followed. Jamie did that.”

“His name was Thaddeus,” Goodnight started. Billy startled, but caught on. He inched closer to Goodnight.

“We just called him Jamie—our nurse, Cajun French she was, she started it. Went around saying she loved him, that he was beloved. And he was, so of course the family caught on. Beloved.” Goodnight snorted. “He was such a little shit sometimes.”

Billy didn’t ask the question. Goodnight answered it anyway. Billy, the first person Jamie had introduced himself to in Rose Creek, deserved to know.

“He died in Little Sailor’s Creek, four months ago now. He’s buried in Virginia soil.  He never made it home.”

Goodnight breathed in a ragged breath. “I wasn’t even there. God, I wasn’t there. Three years I was in Virginia, since Antietam, and I couldn’t even stay to protect my own brother. I had started to bring myself home, not knowing there wouldn’t even be a home there to return to.”

Billy remained silent, so Goodnight continued. 

“Finn was early, and far away, so I could forgive myself for that at least. But Ja—”

Goodnight had played it again and again. The Confederacy had fallen in January, and Goodnight had felt that defeat in his soul. Everything he had done had been for nothing—for a cause he had not believed in, that would never be realized. He had protected his family, but at a great cost.

Within the next few months, his family would be down another member, and Goodnight would be sent back to a home that had disintegrated under the weight of war.

How could Billy ever love a man who had done those things, unwarranted after all?

He got up, and turned away.

“Goodnight,” Billy said, his voice low.

But Goodnight was wading through the world now, lost in his own swirl of memories. He could not hear a thing.

\- -

Billy had not been shocked to hear of Jamie’s death, as upsetting as the news was. This world had a way of taking gentle things away. It was a wonder he had gotten Goodnight back after all.

The man had changed, though—this, too, did not shock Billy. His face was not aged, but it looked weary, and Goody’s old youthful joy would look unnatural on it, now. He had had a tremor in his right hand as they talked, that Billy had watched with caution. His eyes, like an animal’s, that Billy had cornered.

There would be no going back for them, and Billy thought that might be okay. He would not drag Goodnight into a life on the run—this haunted man could not turn hunted. Billy feared it would kill him.

Yes, Billy could live with that. And yet, he still could not leave. There was no cure for what Goodnight had but, perhaps Billy could help him yet, as he had with Mason. He would offer his protection, from whatever Goodnight was running from.

He had woken the next morning with this resolve in mind, and was startled from dressing by a knock on his door. Billy wondered, fleetingly, what Mason was doing up at this hour. His grief often manifested itself in late slumber, although he was trying to change that for the sake of his crops. He must have awoken early and needed some help in the fields.

“Just a moment, Mason,” he called, just as something shifted against the frame of the door. He strolled over and opened it, to find Goodnight walking away.  
“Goody?”

“Ah,” Goodnight called as he spun around. “Sorry, Billy, I had been on a walk and I thought—well, I didn’t know you were expecting company—”

“What do you mean?” Billy said. “The only person who comes ‘round is Mason, who works Bell’s property now. I had only thought he needed my help with—”

“It’s no matter,” Goodnight was approaching fast now, his gait wound tight. “I had just thought, that is… I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I’m sure my manner was quite improper, and the news was too shocking for me to just leave you like that—”

“Goody,” Billy began, taking Goodnight by the hand. “Come inside.”

“I—” Goodnight stopped as the door swung shut behind him. Billy felt his face grow warm with fondness, as Goodnight surveyed his place with wide eyes.

“It’s the same,” he said, a soft smile lighting on his lips.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, but we didn’t really have time to change, during the war. We were left untouched by the Union, but still had some trouble. Crops gave out in ’62, and it was a struggle from then just to get food.” Billy knew his face must look fearsome. “Bell certainly didn’t help with that.”

Goodnight was surveying the perimeter of the small cottage. “Your stuff…”

Billy knew he would notice. “It’s just packed away. I had been—”

He hesitated. Goodnight stopped in place and looked at him, and Billy struggled to meet his solid gaze. This was not a broken man in the room, now. This was Goodnight, returned, and Billy had to confess that he had almost left him.

He took a breath. “I have to admit… I’m ashamed.”

Goodnight turned his head. “Of me?”

“What?” Billy stepped forward. “Goody, no!”

Goodnight moved to back away from him, but his knees met the bend of Billy’s bed. Instead of falling, he compensated by stepping in, into Billy.

Billy held out his hand. Goodnight took it.

“I almost lost my will,” he confessed quietly. “I almost left Rose Creek. I almost left you.”

Goodnight leaned in, his eyes still distant. “It would have been better that way.”

“It would not. I’d rather be with you, in this or any lifetime. But there are those in this town who would, that is… They believe…”

“I think I know…”

It was Billy’s time to turn away. “Then please don’t ask.”

“It wouldn’t change anything.” Goodnight turned his face back. “It hasn’t. I’ve only stayed away because I’m… weaker now.”

Goodnight leaned in, and his breath was hot on Billy’s cheek. “But I’d protect you, if I could.”

Billy huffed a laugh. “The trouble is, I can protect myself just fine.”

“I’ve known that. Billy, I’ve always known that.”

 _I’ve known you_ , went unspoken between them. Billy waited for the rest to come, but it never did. Goodnight fell away from him.

“I hope that you could find me,” Goodnight was saying, already at the door. “If ever you needed.”

“The same to you,” Billy said. “Goodnight,” he warned, and Goodnight looked back his way, just once. “I mean that.”

“I’ll always come back.”

It sounded like a promise, and by this time, Billy believed him. After all, he’d already done it so many times before.

And Billy, as he always did, would wait.

* * *

 September, 1865— _Rose Creek, North Carolina_

“I just don’t understand why they want me there,” Goodnight said, slipping his arm from Martha’s grasp. She _tsk_ -ed and reached for his arm once more, as they strolled into the town. A few lights lit their way, but they were quickly being extinguished as the town filtered from their stores and houses and made their way to the church. Martha’s grip tightened with her excitement, and Goodnight knew she deserved this. Perhaps this was well-deserved by the whole of Rose Creek—a memorial dance, in honor of those lost to war and famine.

Goodnight could not help but feel out of place, and yet he knew he needed to be there, if only to honor Martha, Susanna, and their memory of Finn. He had been a part of Rose Creek after all, even in the end.

"Come now," Martha was saying. "It's a solemn occasion, but still a celebration. Besides, we're finally rid of that farm!"

Goodnight entered the church and was immediately surprised to see two things—the first, his piano, centered grandly at the front of the church, cleared out of everything but that. A jaunty young woman sat at it, playing patriotic tunes. Susanna noted his gaze, and let out a rush of an apology, but it did not matter to Goodnight. His family had long lost track of that piano, and there were more important things to consider.

Next to it, Goodnight noted a second surprising sight—Billy Rocks, nodding politely with the farmhand-turned-farmer, Mason. Rose Creek had been abuzz with rumors of the two, as well as the untimely death of Abner Bell, but they had all stayed mercifully distant from the pair. While the gossip never amounted to anything, it was still a favorite pastime of the town. Recently, Martha had come to him and asked if he was aware of a relationship between the two, a question which had already burned itself into Goodnight’s brain.

And here the two were, slightly apart from the crowd, but still welcomed here after all. Goodnight was pleased by this, all things considered. Billy deserved to be happy, and safe, and Goodnight had known since that morning on the range that that neither outcome lay with him.

“Goodnight,” Martha was saying, rattling his arm. “Joy was just telling me how her sister wants a break from playing. You can play, right?”

“Play?” Goodnight followed her gaze to the piano, and the young woman who was anxiously eyeing the crowd. “I—nothing that this crowd would want to hear.”

Joy, even more excitable and— _voluptuous_ —than her sister, was already maneuvering him towards the piano, cackling with glee. And Goodnight had thought this would be an occasion of solemnity.

He caught Billy’s eye as he sat on the bench, and the crowd took notice of the change in players.

“So,” he started. “What shall I play?”

“Dixie!” A voice cried out from the crowd. Goodnight wrinkled his nose.

“I could only guess at that tune.”

He felt Billy’s dark eyes on him, felt his heartbeat grow steady.

“Come on!” Another voice cried, and Goodnight picked up his hands and began to play. He was not four chords in when the crowd rose up, and began to sing.

_"Southrons, hear your country call you,_

_Up! Lest worse than death befall you,_

_Lo! All the beacon-fires are lighted,_

_Let all hearts be now united!_

_To arms! To arms! To arms in Dixie!"_

Goodnight felt his limbs grow heavy—many times he had heard this song on the battlefield, and many times had the chorus been cut short by gunfire. The song was a call to their home, but it did not speak of the unity they needed when all was said and done—unity between all of the states, a unity that would stop the fighting. Goodnight had had enough of it.

His hands fell away, but the crowd kept going. Goodnight was able to slip past them and into the night, unnoticed.

He did not know someone had followed him until he turned, and Billy was there.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t even make it through the song. Sometimes, I wonder how I can even make it through a day.”

“I understand,” Billy was saying. His face looked calm and collected, matched nicely to his linen dress shirt. Goodnight let his mind wander for a moment—Billy still looked so good. Goodnight was still so in love with him.

“I hate it,” Goodnight said. “I hate that we have to be strangers, when all I want is to be at your side.”

“Then why can't you?” Billy stepped forward.

“Because how can I know you when I don’t even know myself?”

“But I know you.” Goodnight let himself lean in, felt Billy’s heat. “I know that you feel the weight of every death in your heart, and they keep you awake. I know that you think the liquor helps, but it doesn’t. I know that you walked away from me that day because you don’t want to drag me into your mess. And I know I let you stay away because I’d only be a poison to you in this state.”

“You wouldn’t!” Goodnight protested. How could Billy say that, when he was the constant Goodnight needed? “I stayed away, it’s true, but it was—God, it was punishment, wasn’t it? I didn’t think I could be near you, after all I’d done.”

“And did you intend to punish me, as well?”

“Never!”

Billy’s grin was sharp, and made Goodnight’s blood run hot. “Because I’ve done things too, Goodnight. I was starting to think I needed that.”

Goodnight took a shaky breath. “Oh.”

“Poison,” Billy shook his head. “You must know by now you could not be wrong for me.”

“But surely, there are better options—”

“Options?”

“A steady life, sharing a farmstead—”

“Who with?”

“With—” Goodnight hesitated. “Don’t… don’t make me say it.”

Billy’s eyes flashed with recognition. “Mason? God, Goodnight—”

Billy’s laugh began low, in his chest. Goodnight watched the heat rise to his face, a soft flush visible even through darkness.

“Goodnight,” he said, his voice thick with affection. “Goodnight—it’s you. It’s always been you. I just wanted to give you time—”

“Damn time,” Goodnight said, his heart flooding with emotion. “I’ve had enough of it.”

Billy’s mouth was soft against his, and his arms so strong.

For the first time in a long time, Goodnight felt a blossoming moment of peace.

Billy broke away with a soft moan, and Goodnight fell into his neck, tracing down to the crest of his collarbone. Billy hitched up, and stopped.

“I h-hate to ruin this,” he said, breath short. “But I have a much better location in mind.”

It took a power Goodnight did not know he had, but he pulled away from Billy with a final kiss, looked into his eyes, and nodded.

“Let’s go home.”

\- -

“Jesus Christ, Billy,” Goody’s breath was growing ragged, and his hips stuttered upward. Billy tightened his grasp. They had hardly made it through the door when Goodnight fell upon him again, and Billy had quickly gained the upper hand. He had forgotten that Goodnight was a boneless kisser, and if he were in the teasing mood, he would almost say it was a swoon.

“I’ve got you,” Billy promised, breathing into the crook of Goodnight’s neck. His skin was warm and red, and Billy’s chin prickled where Goodnight’s straggly beard caught it.

Billy began to move down Goodnight’s body, but a pair of strong hands stopped him, and Goodnight guided him to the bed.

“Let me,” he said. “I haven’t stopped thinking of you for one moment but this, I’ll admit, has occupied my thoughts from time to time.”

Goodnight looked hesitant, and Billy bit back a laugh. “Go ahead,” he said. “I won’t stop you.”

Goodnight knelt between Billy’s knees and reached for him.

Billy watched for a tremor, but Goody’s hands were steady where they undid the buttons of Billy’s pants. Billy let out a soft moan when Goodnight’s hands grasped his cock tenderly, stroking once or twice. Goodnight looked at him expectantly.

“Please,” Billy said, and Goody nodded. Billy was hard, now, and he had to refrain himself from surging forward as Goody placed his lips around his cock. The edges of his beard brushed against his sensitive skin, and Billy held back a cry at the sensation. Goodnight’s tongue pressed against his shaft in exploration and, with a few tentative bobs of his head, he began to move in earnest.

Billy was lost to it almost immediately. Goodnight’s mouth was hot, and the heat would only build from there, creeping up his entire body until he could take no more. He placed a hand on Goodnight’s shoulder and brought him up, pulling away at Goodnight’s fastenings.

“Together,” he said. “I want us to come together.”

Goodnight could only nod, his breath coming in short bursts. He slid his shirt off as well, and then pushed Billy’s over his head. Billy pushed him back on the bed and straddled him, feeling Goodnight’s heat press against his own. In a moment, it was over.

Goodnight brought a trembling hand to clasp Billy’s face. “I didn’t think I’d have this again,” he said softly.

“I’ll be here for you,” Billy whispered, kissing his temple. He knew what Goodnight felt.

“And I’ll be here, too,” Goodnight said, his face warm. Billy thought he looked young again. He fell to his side, and felt Goodnight move against him, his eyes drifting closed.

“Then sleep,” he said, and Goodnight’s eyes fell.

And Billy knew that when he woke, Goodnight would be there still.

\- -

Goodnight did not know what his dreams were that night, but despite the circumstances given to him, they were not pleasant. He woke with a start, and wondered why he thought things might have changed.

A hand found his in the darkness, and when it pulled away, he saw Billy light a match, and bring it to a lamp, and fill the room with light.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Goodnight found himself saying.

“God, Goodnight, what for?”

“Don’t you realize?” He said. “We’ve never spent a night of peace together. It’s all the pain built up, all the pain I’ve caused.”

Billy was framed perfectly in the light. Goodnight could not look away.

“Goody,” Billy started. “Goodnight…. A lot has caused me pain in my life. You were never the source.”

“But… I left you alone for… for years.”

“And that pain was caused by my decision to stay behind, and the decision that was made for me. You were not at fault for that.”

Goodnight felt steadied. “You are so good,” he said. “I only wish that the world had been good to you in turn.”

He caught Billy’s eyes. They bore into him, filled with shock and sadness and love.  “Same to you,” he said finally.

Goodnight let out a small laugh, and Billy joined him, moving in. This was where he was meant to be.

His cock throbbed between his legs as Billy continued to slink down his body, kissing the softest parts of his skin. Goodnight’s mind felt mercifully blank, filled with thoughts of desire… desire for _Billy_.

Billy held him tighter as Goodnight keened up, hoping for contact. He could hardly look at Billy, eyes so bright and observant. They met, and Goodnight fell apart.

“Billy,” he said, his words coming fast with his breath. “I need to be with you.”

“I’m here,” Billy said, “We’re here.”

“No,” Goodnight continued. “I need to be with you, and away from here.”

“We could leave,” Billy said. “We could leave, whenever you want.”

“I want to,” Goodnight whispered back. “I’m ready.”

And he was, and he truly meant it.

Home had never been a place for him, after all. 

* * *

In time, Rose Creek would fall away to the rush of the West. The numbers in the community would swell and recede, as they always had, and those few farmers on the top would continue to flourish, even the ones who had come into power through means that were rumored unsavory.

Some families would stay, and some families would go, particularly those that had lost something or someone, so dear to them. They had everything to gain, and very little to lose. 

And some that traveled West were drawn together, lost in the same place, looking for a harbor in the storm.

And some that traveled West had already found what they were looking for, in the form of stolen looks, and soft confessions, and letters finally exchanged after many lost years.

For all of them, the waiting was over. Their time had come—their time to come home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience as this fic was being updated! This was an exercise in a lot of things, and motivation was one of them! All of the support really helped!
> 
> I am glad that this story has come full circle, and I apologize for the myriad departures and reunions! I imagine it will be really frustrating to watch "The Magnificent Seven" and see Goodnight depart once more. And yet he'll always come back!
> 
> The research was a very fun aspect of this fic, and there was a lot that I looked into that I did not mention, particularly a tidbit about what a "French safe" was. I apologize for not using this in those later scenes.
> 
> If this inspired you to check out "Cold Mountain," I would recommend it, but just remember that this story went in a way that was a little more uplifting (with any luck!). In addition, I'd love to hear what your thoughts are! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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